


The moments in between

by Viffthriff



Category: Les tuniques bleues
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 10:54:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viffthriff/pseuds/Viffthriff
Summary: Five years felt like fifty with him. (a bunch of Chesterfield/Blutch drabbles, about everything and nothing)





	The moments in between

**Author's Note:**

> I...genuinely thought that Yuri!!! On Ice would be the one kill my years-old fanfic writer's block. Oops.
> 
> Also this is 900 words of Nothing. Just wanted to play with the characters a bit. Was torn on what would Blutch call Chesterfield and since I’m situating this very early in the war, I’m sticking with sergeant.  
> Also, warning for non-genuine but still present fatshaming.

Blutch tosses and turns in his bedroll; July makes tents horribly stuffy. Shared body heat makes things worse, but even the higher-ups rarely have the luxury of private quarters in these trying times, something that comforts him just a little. 

He finally decides on a side to sleep on and it’s facing his tentmate. He used to prefer sleeping on his back, kept him more alert and aware of things. But lately… well, he might have to keep an eye on the sergeant’s reaction, were he to try and leave at night.

The sergeant sleeps on the side, slightly curled up upon himself. The big baby hasn’t lost all of his habits from being from a safe home, it seems. How peaceful. Blutch shuffles a little closer, just to see if he snores, if only a little.

A slightly louder exhale, but not much else, no matter how much Blutch likes to rile him up during the day about supposedly deafening noises he makes in his sleep. Surprising, given how often he’s broken his nose (sometimes courtesy of Blutch’s). He has some small scars on his face from a few less successful missions. A soft line here, another bump there. He wants to boast about them but Blutch isn’t all that sure these amount to much to be proud of, let alone as battle trophies; they’re small compensations for months, years of brash decisions and lack of judgement.

Blutch has his own share of scars. His legs are especially covered in them. Another one stuck around though, right under his left eye: a very sharp branch slapping his face in Québec. Nothing to write home about, but enough for the sergeant to get emotional and hug him, disregarding his embarrassment about wearing nothing but branches and leaves haphazardly strewn together on that day.

The sergeant radiates warmth, enough to make the cramped places they often get stuck in unbearable . Warm breath, warm skin. He…oh, he is close. That night is making Blutch sweat like crazy, but not as much as his neighbor. He wonders why the hell the sergeant even keeps that heavy woolen cover on. He tugs at it a little, figuring that a sweaty sergeant in the morning would be even worse to put up with.

He has grown skinnier during his time in the army. He’ll probably never lose the softer skin at the belly or the wider waist though, which was good enough for Blutch to keep a good fat joke in store. Blutch tentatively palms his stomach to check, still. Soft and warm. Country boy and a country belly to match.

He recoils. Enough.

He turns on his other side, frowning. That won’t cut it. It is way too hot, and dehydration can drive one a little mad out there. He gets up and peeks outside, looking for a trough to dunk his head in. It’s gross, but it’ll do the trick, and he doesn’t have hair to worry about.

The sergeant's sleep must have gotten lighter over their time in the encampment, as he stirs and grouses clearly in his direction.

“…again?”

The course of action would have been to knock him out and run off cackling, but the heat is clouding his brain.

“Nah, just gotta take a leak!”, he counters dismissively.

He’s used worse excuses when it comes to desertion attempts, after all. Alas, a sleepy sergeant isn’t always a stupid one.

“Yeah right. I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“To watch me piss?”, he says with a smirk. “Didn’t know you were into that.”

The neighboring sleeping quarters are the only thing keeping the sergeant from yelling.

“Blutch, your idiocy never fails to astound me.”, he mutters instead, rubbing his eyes.

His hair is a mess, a rare sight. Blutch has seen him trying to take care of it many times, whining about how he misses having easy access to a barber.

“Okay, you go find a spot. But don’t you try fleeing, you worm!”

Well, so much for dunking his head under water, as everything else is cooling him down just as efficiently.

He walks to the nearby latrines, neither stomping nor making much effort to be quiet. Might as well fake it and strike the sergeant when he least expects it. He feels his glare bear down on his back even from a good fifty feet away, which makes the stench of the latrines almost worth it. Why care about that burly moron’s comfort if he ruins it for himself anyway? He’s just that easy to anger, and just that fun to infuriate even more from subsequent prodding and poking.

“Enjoyed the show?”, he drawls on his way back.

“I don’t know what you were plotting tonight, but nice try”. The sergeant leads him back to the tent. “Failed to scare me with those clammy hands of yours though.”

Blutch freezes. It’s one thing to distantly know that yes, it's very likely that it wasn’t merely his move outside that woke him up, but another entirely to have the sergeant's tiny brain trying to work out what just happened in their tent, and possibly reaching to different conclusions than his own. He grumbles, lying down and trying his best to face away from the sergeant in their suddenly even tinier shared space.

“Whatever! I wanted to check if you were really as humongous as you appear under daylight. Also, you’re even less bearable when you’re sweaty so drop the covers already! G’night!”

He wants an angry retort, an offended huff, _anything._ But despite the quiet night magnifying every single sound they both made, he gets deafening silence.

Cornélius’ breathing evens out. Blutch’s eventually does too, as his efforts to think about anything, from busty barmaids to California’s sequoia trees, double.


End file.
